


Let me be

by Idunn



Series: (Not) My Type [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21727786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idunn/pseuds/Idunn
Summary: An exploration of your feelings, after you entered a relationship of sorts with Sherlock and he leaves you... Is sad. Really sad.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Reader
Series: (Not) My Type [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566022
Comments: 1
Kudos: 34





	Let me be

**Author's Note:**

> For those two people who subscribed to (Not) My Type, and all those who gave me the sweet gift of Kudos and comments, this is for you.

\- Listen, I think you should go, I have work tomorrow - you said, as you put your t-shirt on again. When you turn around, he’s buttoning his shirt, the really deep purple one. You have a fondness for that piece of clothing; after all, this was what you remember from that night. Well, the smoke and the shirt and the card.

His long legs are pale in the light that comes form the window; the night is cold and misty and you feel the excess lube freezing between your tights. Your nipples are sore and your hands ache from gripping at his back. You bet that the skin beneath the silk is marred with the long marks of your fingernails.

He keeps on dressing as your pad slowly to the bathroom. The light bulb is weak and everything is bathed in a weird, cold light. As you wash your face first and then clean between your legs, noting the tenderness and hoping it doesn’t show tomorrow at work, you try not to ask yourself why you keep on doing this.

Why you keep sleeping with him.

He is a good enough lover, you supposed. The first time you got together, he confessed (under the influence of two good bottles of wine), that he wasn’t a virgin, but he hadn’t experienced much. A woman he knew, Sherlock said, and some snogging with a friend.

The woman reference... you don’t know who that could be. A mystery. You bet he is surrounded by beautiful women wherever he goes, so...  
The friend... well. You could pay to see that, and you have a bet with yourself about who could be. But you’re sure his wife wouldn’t be so happy to share him.

When you came back to your bedroom, he is standing next to the window, his curls the only part of him still messed up. You love his hair. Love sinking your hands in it, love yanking on it, love carding your hands in it.

Sometimes he stays the night. He never sleeps. He says he’s too busy «thinking»; you love to drape yourself over his long frame, his legs entwined with yours, his feet always cold and his hands big and soothing on your back.

This. This right here is the problem. The dread you feel creeping in as he watches the night outside your tiny apartment; the pain on your chest, the tears that are threatening to spill at a moments notice; the certainty that, if you didn’t see each other any more, after that night, he wont miss you. You’re just another entertainment, another way for him to lose himself.

\- Sherlock...- you call to him, seeing as he’s still at the window, his Belstaff draped over a chair close to the table. He hasn’t left yet; so... He is waiting for something.

But when he finally turns around, is a single look at his face that tells you exactly what he’s thinking about, and is like your worst nightmare, even when you’re expecting it.

He smiles, a tiny smile dripping with insincerity. He puts on his coat with short, economic movements.

\- Well, I think we’ve been great! But... you know how it is, with work and cases and maybe my brother will call me to rescue him again... I don’t really think we should see each other again. But, no hard feelings! I have to go, Lestrade phoned me when you were in the bathroom, a seven is waiting for me in the morgue at Bart’s! Ciao! - he says, coat flowing down the short hallway and through the door, and if your brain wasn’t screaming at you, and your heart would stop trying to beat out of your chest, you’ll say he was almost... fleeing the scene.

As you sit on the bed, only clad in your oversized tee, tears flowing down your cheeks, you laugh. Who would believe you, you wouldn’t believe yourself if you didn’t have the hickeys in your neck or the soreness or the messages on your phone to prove it. 

Who would believe Sherlock Holmes was interested in you?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It has been two weeks; two long, filled with work and too many tears, weeks. You didn’t even know why you’re crying so much! He wasn’t the most attentive person, and he liked to butt into your plans, always claiming that he «was so much interesting that this you call fun!». He always spoiled the movie you were waiting too see at the cinema. And, even if he tried to be sneaky about it, always steals your chocolate covered almonds.

But he had the most interesting book recommendations. And he shared his scarf with you a couple of times. 

And he knows what you want, what you need. How long you like your nipples sucked, how far he could push your pain threshold. 

He knows how many orgasms he can wrench from your body until you say «please, I cant go on».

You have felt his hands sometimes, in your dream state. Long, sweeping caresses to your back. Tiny, barely there kisses in your forehead. The sniffs of your neck searching for a whiff of your perfume, the examination of your fingernails, the pulse thing on your wrist.

He probably knows you better than you know yourself, and that stings. 

Because he doesn’t want you.

You take a few days to go to see some friends in the country. There’s a friend, Alicia, who has a cottage close to the sea, and down you go, armed with a suitcase full of woolly sweaters and three bottles of very good alcohol, and you tell her the story about this absolute madman, this beautiful man that hasn’t called or written or didn’t even checked your statuses on Whatsapp. And you cry, and cry and cry, and then you write an email for your boss, asking for a new assignment, a place where you don’t have to see him every time he comes around the Yard and avoids looking in your direction.

And a week later, when you come back, DI Lestrade call you to his office and says, that if you wanted, you could work with the Cyber Crimes Unit. They work at another building, he says, and does a weird thing with his head, and you see his tiny, pained expression he has on, and the feeling of sorrow that you recognize from his face.

As you leave his office and go to gather your stuff at your desk, you feel this weird kind of relief that you’re not the only one that had his heart broken by a Holmes.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The gig with the Cyber Crimes Unit is very sweet. For one, it pays more, and you don’t have to make more extra shifts. And they appreciate your work and your insight, so they make you Team Leader (one of six) and you get to write proposals and go to seminars and travel and teach other people about your job and you’re passionate and opinionated and happy.

It has been four months since the last time you saw Sherlock in the flesh. So, is of course a shock to see his brother on the other side of your hotel door, seeing how you’re in Midhusrt for a conference; he’s so different of his younger brother and carries himself with the same poise. 

As you sit at the tiny coffee table, a cup of tea on hand, you still think Mycroft Holmes is a fox. But he’s not the person you miss the most from London.

He watches you in silence as you drink your tea; this unnerves you but you endure it, knowing that what comes out from this observation wont be pleasant. 

\- You love him - he says, after a long time. You inhale sharply, closing your eyes and trying to reign in the impulse of shower him with the contents of your cup.  
\- Not a concern of you, mister Holmes. And I’m getting over it, you see. After all, I don’t go after people who explicitly told me they aren’t interested in keeping with the relationship, you know?-  
\- Ah, my dear girl. But he didn’t told you such a thing, isn’t it?-  
\- And how could you know that? I doubt he talks about me. After all, I less than an afterthought.-  
\- Please, stop trying to fish for compliments. My brother haven’t had a relation without extracting some kind of ... lets call it advantage, of it. There are some exceptions, of course. 

And he stays right there, boring into you with his oddly coloured eyes, that look a little bit like the sea after a storm. You shift on your seat, uncomfortable under his gaze.

\- I really don’t know what you expect of me, Mister Holmes. He’s ... free to do as he pleases. I knew what I was getting into when I... I mean. I know him a little bit. After all, we had... something, for six months or so. But it was never serious. For both of us. 

\- The only thing I ask of you is, go to Baker Street for the last time. My brother... he is a fickle creature, usually. Nothing could capture his interest for too long. He’s used to get in and out of other peoples lives, without caring about what he leaves in the dust. But sometimes... sometimes he leaves not because he’s bored, but because he doesn’t know how to tell them.-  
\- How to tell them what? - You ask, feeling adrift.  
\- That he cares. I’ve tried to shield my brother of so much, and I know this is, in a way, my fault. - The older Holmes gets up, and you get up too, to see him out.

But you have a last question.  
\- Why come here? Why are you telling me this? - you ask, your heart beating wildly in your chest, and a glimmer of hope you didn’t know you had still blooming.  
\- Because now I understand what I deprived my brother of, all this years with my teachings. Caring is not and advantage miss, but sometimes, sometimes is the only thing that could make us go on. That makes the life worth living.

After he leaves, you get your phone out and scroll to Sherlock’s last message. An inane thing, an enquiry to see if you were home, but seeing him ONLINE only adds to you anxiety.

Could you do it? Could you risk this, your new found life, this life after him? 

This love you had for him, and never acknowledged. 

Is it worth it?

Your fingers hover over the keys. You type. You hit SEND.


End file.
